Polite Society
by Suz2
Summary: Slash: On the way home from Miller's Grove, Darien discovers that Scarborough was wrong in more ways than one: he doesn't have what it takes to hurt Bobby Hobbes. Missing tag scene for Tireseas. M for adult concepts, some language. Based on a quote seen o


Fandom: Invisible Man

Pairing: Bobby/Darien

Spoilers: Tiresias

Rating: adult language and concepts, sexuality

Disclaimer: The Iman and his partner do not belong to me. Anyone looking to sue can stand in line with all the other bill collectors beating on my door. No profit made, no harm intended.

Polite Society

(set immediately after the arrest of Deborah Benjamin in Tiresias)

A/N: based on a quote seen on LJ.

"We gotta talk about it, Fawkes."

Personally, I don't see why. It happened, I liked it, we had a good time, it got him over whatever hump it was he hit after I hauled him out of that Tijuana fast food dive when those Canadian lovebirds with machine guns opened fire on us. No big deal. So I know that's not what he means. But I keep coming back to it.

Yeah, OK, he had a delayed reaction to the whole invisibility thing, but still. It _wasn't_ that big a deal. I mean, we'd just met, right? I save his squirrelly ass and he goes all strong silent type on me when we get back to the hotel. It was the first - and only - time I've blown him.

He was trying to read the local English language paper when I finally got tired of the silent treatment and went down on him. If he wasn't going to talk to me, then I was going to try some non-verbal communication. God knows, I've had to resort to a little sexual blackmail in my life before then.

It's not that I didn't love Casey, but, well, she was kind of underwhelmed when I got busted for molesting that old geezer in his retirement condo. Even if I hadn't touched him - like that - the reality is, there've been plenty of other guys I HAVE touched like that. So what was the big deal if I did my whacked out partner a favor? Especially since I knew that I wasn't going to sit around while Arnaud did who knew what to Case. I wanted back-up, and maybe this was the way to ensure I got it. He might not have seemed like much at the time, but he was all I had. And he had to have had something on the ball if he was still working for the government, right? Right. Or that's what I told myself.

The reality is, I think the minute he laughed at me, his 'oh, THAT was smooth', comment making me feel like I'd just failed my first secret agent test, I was determined to get one over on him.

Well, I did. I freaked him out pretty bad, even if it didn't register with him until after the fact. Which is why I wound up at Arnaud's hacienda solo.

"Fawkes." He's getting impatient with me, now. I huddle deeper into my corner of the van and go on ignoring him. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about the fact that the second his cum hit my tongue two months ago, I was a goner.

I don't want to talk about the fact that I almost killed him less than an hour ago. All I want is to wallow in my misery and try and get over the bad case of the hots I have for Bobby Hobbes before one or both of us ends up dead. Only, I know it isn't going to work that way.

"Kid," he insists as he pulls the ratty van over to the side of the road while Claire's black Jeep fades in the distance ahead of us on the windy country road. "You didn't hurt me. You _can't_ hurt me," he reassures me. "I wasn't kidding when I said it'll take more'n you've got kill me."

I'm not reassured. Not even slightly. He picks up on that without even trying.

"I've got just the cure for what ails you, my friend," he announces as he pulls back onto the roadway and we continue on our merry way. We drive for a good twenty minutes, heading back towards San Diego from Millers Grove and that fruit loop, Scarborough, and his even crazier daughter, and as civilization starts rearing its ugly head, he pulls over at the first roadside tavern we pass, parking and turning off the van. "We're getting drunk," he announces.

"What?" I manage, more than a little surprised. I haven't seen him drink anything stronger than beer since we joined up again after Mexico.

"I know a man in need of an attitude adjustment when I see one, my friend," he says and slams his door shut.

I stare at him though the glass of the driver's side door for a second before I get out. "My attitude isn't what needs adjusting," I inform him, snarky in spite of the fact that it's true. What I _need_ is a bullet in my gland-infested brain. I don't ever want to feel Bobby's throat between my hands like I did today. Not ever.

"Maybe, maybe not. We'll see," Hobbes says noncommittally, and leads the way into the roadhouse, making a pit stop on the way to the bar counter.

Two hours and at least 4 beers and 5 shots later, Hobbes is mellow and slightly buzzed. I'm a whole lot closer to blitzed. I guess he's had to learn how to hold his alcohol in the spy biz. Maybe I can get lessons…

"Fawkesy?" he says quietly as he tosses off the last swallow of his scotch.

"Nuhh," I grunt back at him. The swirls and ripples in my own glass fascinate me for some reason.

"Time to go, pal," he says, flagging down the barkeep and paying the tab before taking hold of my elbow and steering me towards the door.

"I'm not drunk yet," I complain, knowing that the whine in my voice is proving me wrong.

"Drunk enough for what I have in mind," Hobbes smiles at me. It's the weirdest look; gentle, tender, even, and it makes my legs wobble a little as he helps me into the van, shutting the door after me like some fifties teenager on a first date.

He gets in and fastens his seatbelt after making sure I've managed to get mine on right. "Where're we going now?" I ask him, wishing I'd had a chance to get at least 2 more shots downed before he hauled my ass out of the tavern. I know I'm not going to be sleeping very well tonight.

"My place," he says casually.

I gulp suddenly, wondering if the spinning in my head is just the scotch, or if the lightheaded buzz is something else. "What?" I ask stupidly. "Why?"

"I want you to so something for me," my partner says quietly as he merges onto the I-5 heading for downtown and the exit that'll take us to his place. I've only been there once before.

"Do what?" I ask him a couple minutes later as he parks in front of his building. It's about 7 in the evening, and all the daytime traffic is long gone. Only the people who live in his building over the storefronts on the ground floor are left to take up space along the curbs.

He releases his seatbelt instead of answering the question. Then turns to look at me in the dusk of the late spring evening. "Fuck me," he says calmly.

I can feel my mouth drop open. "Wha…?"

"Fuck me, Fawkes," he repeats as he leans towards me.

My mouth is still hanging open, I guess, because when he kisses me, our tongues curl around each other hotly, exchanging the flavors of the booze we've drunk. "This isn't happening," I whisper as he breaks the kiss.

"Not if you don't want it to," Hobbes answers, a little sad as he opens his car door. "But you're not going back to your place to sulk tonight, my friend. Tonight, you need company. _My_ company."

For the second time in 4 hours, I'm left sitting in the front seat of Bobby's beat-up van staring at him through the glass. And it suddenly hits me that I don't want that barrier, or any others, between us.

He's offering. He's offering what I've wanted since I tasted him in Mexico. I scramble out of the van, untangling the seatbelt from my waist while I half fall out of the car. Hobbes is there waiting for me, and the shoulder he uses to steady me gives me the chance to get close enough for a second kiss. He lets me do it, clearly not caring if everyone in his building is watching while we neck on the street by his front door. "You want me?" I ask, not even close to believing I could get that lucky.

"Since I first laid eyes on you, my friend," he smiles against my cheek and wraps an arm around my waist, guiding me into his building once he's unlocked the door.

This time, when I walk into my partner's place I don't have eyes for anything but him. I have my hands under his shirt before he's gotten his front door closed behind us, and as he laughs softly, I bend forward and kiss him again, drowning in the flavor of scotch-soaked Bobby Hobbes. "You're sure," I say, not asking, not daring to, but wanting the confirmation that all this isn't some quicksilver nightmare I'm going to wake up from to find my partner's lifeless body under me.

"Trust me," he grins up at me. "I'm sure." With that, he reaches into his hip pocket and pulls out… a condom. "Enough to plan ahead."

I laugh and wrap my arms around him, feeling the warm strength of him against my body. Life. Heat. Lust. All the things I nearly strangled out of existence today.

"Fuck me, Fawkes," he repeats once he's broken the latest kiss.

"OK," I grin, suddenly neither drunk nor worried about what the life holds for me, now that my partner has made it clear that he's not going to let anything hurt me. Not even myself. "But we're gonna need more'n one of these," I say, taking the condom from him with my best bad-boy grin.

His laugh makes my heart soar, the fear and dread that've been suffocating me since I came back to myself with my hands tight around Bobby's throat gone in that burst of glee. "Don't worry, ace. There's more where that came from," he assures me and pushes me towards his stairs and a future that just has to be better than the one I was looking at 4 hours ago.

_It's been a long time since my high school advanced placement English classes, but I had a chance to catch up on my poetry during my last stint in the pen. The American poet, W.H. Auden, once wrote that: "What the American male really wants is two things: he wants to be blown by a stranger while reading a newspaper and he wants to be fucked by his buddy when he's drunk. Everything else is society."_

_Lucky for me, I was going to get the pleasure of being both the stranger and the buddy. And polite society be damned._


End file.
